


'96

by orphan_account



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Asexuality, M/M, The fluffiest fluff, idk what this is i just felt like writing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-06
Updated: 2014-12-06
Packaged: 2018-02-28 10:23:21
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,106
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2728832
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>harry and louis love each other very much. it's the nineties in london and everything is nice.</p>
            </blockquote>





	'96

Louis’ skin is like gold. It’s like the rays of the sun don’t just touch his skin but they absorb into him, no, it’s like the rays of the sun gain their energy and their light from the tanned warmth of his body glowing in the sunlight and it’s so beautiful Harry can hardly stand it. Louis’ eyelashes fan across the top of his pointed cheekbones so beautifully gaunt one would think he was a Donatello sculpture, and when he looks up at the clouds his eyes are blue like the Mediterranean and green like the Pacific and grey like the smoke that caresses his lips when they share the cigarette that he keeps tucked behind his ear in the early morning. The world around them is wrapped in a wet fog and the sun is creeping over the factory buildings and apartment complexes of outer London, casting an orange haze over the city, but Louis is gilded bronze even when the world is shrouded in morning mist and Harry can’t imagine looking anywhere else.

 

Harry’s apartment isn’t far from the rooftop of the restaurant Louis works at, a small breakfast and lunch place which serves classic English food that Louis doesn’t really care for but, hey, it pays well and the customers give nice tips. They’ve only known each other a few weeks but it’s become routine for Louis to walk to Harry’s after a shift. Harry’s place is a few blocks away, just go down the main road, through a dirty and dank alley, and you’re on his street. The road Harry lives on really suits him, it’s small and most of the buildings were built in the ‘70s but everything feels much older. There are rugs hanging out to dry on balconies and clothes lines stretching across fire escapes and Harry’s balcony is occupied by his herb and flower garden. Even though the street below is always wet with something that smells like sewage and it appears as though Harry is the only one who bothers to pick up litter, Harry’s apartment is a tiny shoebox-sized heaven just four stories up.

 

_left you half of my muffin (it’s poppyseed) and there’s coffee in the french press. i’ll be back from class around two. if you don’t mind watering the plants that’d be really nice!!_

_harry_

 

Louis had a few takeaway boxes from the restaurant for he and Harry to share later that he stored in the fridge, so he ate the kind of stale yellow muffin and drank the kind of weak coffee that Harry brewed and sat on the balcony amongst the jungle of vines and leaves and took in the symphony of fragrances. Harry’s balcony wasn’t so much a balcony as it was a window which led out onto his fire escape, but he’d placed a wobbly bench inside beneath the window with a few blankets atop it to act as a little window seat where Louis had come to enjoy reading and writing in his journal. The bench probably doubled as a place for Harry to store all of his spare blankets in the warmer months but the stack of various patterns and thicknesses was really nice for some reason.

 

Harry’s apartment was a studio. When you walked in the front door there was a kitchen and bathroom on your left and a bedroom and living room on your right. There wasn’t really any closet space, the only closet the place had was currently filled with winter coats and towels and sheets and toiletries, so Harry’s wardrobe was a simple rolling clothes rack in the corner beside his futon. It was folded up now, pushed against the wall and facing the windows on the opposite side of the room in front of which a small television was propped on a bedside table with a few shelves in it where Harry kept his films and speakers. There was a crack in the ceiling that dripped whenever it rained so Harry had learned to just keep a bucket on the floor in case the weather took a turn. The lights in the kitchen flickered and made the walls look a murky yellow color and the water pipes are old so the shower stops and spits and the radiators are old so they hiss and groan all night in the winter but it’s Harry’s and he likes it that way.

 

When Harry came home, Louis was sprawled out on the striped carpet in front of the futon scribbling poems into his journal and listening to The Magnetic Fields from Harry’s speakers.

 

_I could listen to all my friends_

_And go out again_

_And pretend it's enough_

_Or I could make a career of being blue_

 

Harry walked in quietly, the only sound coming from the jingle of his keys and the clicking of his heels on the wood-paneled floor. He sat cross-legged beside Louis, leaning an elbow on his lower back and resting his head on his shoulder. His loose curls tickled Louis’ neck where his t-shirt ended and Harry’s warm breath reached his skin through the fabric and Louis put his pen down to focus on the boy next to him. He turned slightly and Harry moved off of his back so Louis could flip over, leaning up on his elbows staring into Harry’s warm emerald and onyx eyes.

 

“Hey.” “Hi.” Harry moved an inch closer and Louis closed his eyes. Harry paused to admire his eyelashes and the freckles that were spattered across his nose and cheekbones and the odd few on his eyelids and smiled to himself before leaning in and kissing those dusty rose lips and feeling, for a moment, that he shared some of the sun’s energy. He felt Louis sigh into the kiss, relaxing his shoulders and tilting his head back a bit more and Harry reached one hand on the other side of Louis’ body and the other came to rest on Louis’ jawline, thumbing over the sharp lines of his face. They kissed like that for a while until Harry could taste the cigarettes Louis had smoked this morning and Louis could taste the coffee Harry drank while sitting in a lecture hall filled with dozens of other half-asleep students feigning interest in the subject. They broke away with a mutual giggle and Harry ducked his head down to press kisses to Louis’ collarbones and Louis kissed Harry’s hair and when their eyes met again it was like the light of the moon was in Harry’s eyes.

 

They didn’t have sex because Harry said he’d tried it a few times and didn’t like it so he didn’t want to. Louis said that was alright and that he’d love him no matter what. Harry likes to kiss and cuddle and kiss Louis’ neck and chest not because he wants to have sex but because he loves him, he thinks.

 

Harry has been learning Italian and works in a used bookstore down the road, and Louis loves it when Harry works because he comes home (Louis’ already started calling Harry’s place home, but maybe that’s because he’s never really felt so safe anywhere else before.) smelling like musk and dust and that spicy-sweet scent old books have that Louis hasn’t yet found a way to describe, despite his multiple attempts as seen in his journals since the day he met Harry in that same shop when he was looking for a copy of Jane Eyre.

 

When Louis saw him for the first time he couldn’t believe one boy could be so beautiful. It was selfish, really, for Harry to steal all of the good looks from everyone else in the world. He was wearing a white t-shirt with a neck wide and deep enough to show that Harry had tattoos on his collarbones, and a pair of light jeans that bunched up where Harry was wearing brown work boots with the laces looped around the back twice below his ankles. His hair was the kind of brown Louis saw on the trunks of the trees in the forest where he and his family went camping when he was young, and it fell in soft ringlets to his shoulders. He’d been squatting in front of a bookcase with a stack of hardcovers under his arm when he looked up at Louis from beneath a strand of hair which had fallen out of place in front of his eyes. He smiled a dimpled grin and Louis knew he was a goner.

 

It’s embarrassing and cliche how often Louis loses his breath, still, when he sees Harry. He’ll still be breathless when he looks into those big green eyes, even ten years down the line, he thinks. And when he smiles at him with those pink, full lips, Louis will always wonder how he came to be this lucky.

 

_Well you may not be beautiful_

_But it's not for me to judge_

_I don't know if you're beautiful_

_Because I love you too much_

 

They’ve been together two months when they get their first set of matching tattoos. They hold hands the whole time. Harry doesn’t have much of a tolerance for pain so he tears up quite a bit and Louis doesn’t really mind it, but when Harry asks to take breaks Louis does too so they can sit up and lean towards each other and kiss gently and Louis can run his hands through Harry’s gentle curls. Eventually Harry decides the pain is too much and he asks Louis to come outside with him where they share a spliff. Louis lets Harry have most of it and by the time they start being prodded with needles again Harry is happily stoned and doesn’t mind the pain at all. His cheeks are flushed and after an hour he has a sailboat and Louis a compass and Louis knows that Harry will always mean as much to him as he does right now.

 

Louis likes to call Harry “baby” and Harry likes to call Louis “darling” and they get more tattoos together, one time after taking ecstasy and if there wasn’t a more strangely arousing event in either of their lives they’d both be surprised. By the time they leave the shop with tattoos of the first words they ever spoke to each other, Harry hasn’t stopped smiling for an hour. They walk to Harry’s apartment and when they get there Harry tells Louis he wants to try something new. Louis asks him a dozen times if he’s sure and harry reassures him a dozen times that he is, then they do some things that Harry promised he was comfortable with, promised he wanted, as a playlist of SZA and Holy Other plays from his speakers. When, in the morning, Harry says it was great but probably a one-time thing Louis kisses him and tells him it’s okay and he loves him no matter what he wants.

 

They spend their extra money on either new plants or drugs or books and they generally do their drug experimentation on their own at Harry’s place (which has kind of become Louis’ place too, since Louis doesn’t even have a toothbrush at his own apartment anymore.) unless they decide to go to a club with Harry’s friends from uni. They don’t have sex again, and Louis doesn’t mind at all. He loves Harry so much. He loves seeing Harry’s sweat-sheened body dancing wildly to whatever music their club of choice has chosen to play, he loves watching Harry play his guitar sitting on their window seat, he loves that Harry always smells like coconut in the summer and mistletoe in the winter. He loves everything about Harry.

 

Harry doesn’t really know as much about Louis as he wishes he did, but when he catches Louis in these quiet moments has he writes poems or as he listens to a song and tears up at the lyrics or as he sings in the shower, he catches a glimpse of the sunlight within him and could swell up and explode with the love he feels for him.

 

They’re twenty and twenty-one and twenty-two and they still feel like they’re flying when they’re together, like they aren’t tethered to the ground and could do anything. Louis is gilded bronze and Harry is leatherbound books, Louis is black tea and Harry is milk and sugar, Louis is bare feet and Harry is chunky knit socks. Harry wakes up with cold toes tickling his calves and warm breath spreading across his neck and arms wrapping around his stomach and it feels like he smiled all through the night.

 

 


End file.
